Celebration after a case
by Guinevere81
Summary: John gets some unwanted attention. Ok, so I write whump, that seems to mean I almost have to try my hand at the non con category, so here is my attempt, angsty as anything...
1. Chapter 1

"Right then, he's in custody, drinks are in order, the Queen's head. Coming Sherlock?" Lestrade picked up his coat and glanced over to Sherlock who was hovering slightly over his flat mate. John was sat hunched in a chair pressing an ice pack to his left cheek after an enthusiastic encounter with their suspect an hour before.

"Got an experiment." Sherlock retorted as he shrugged into the Belstaff coat and flicked his collar up. "John!?" both Lestrade and Sherlock said at once and John dropped the icepack and smiled. From Lestrade it was clearly a question but from Sherlock a statement of expectation.

"I have a choice between severed body parts and chemical fumes or a quiet pint at the local pub…" he chuckled "Queen's head it is." Sherlock looked slightly put out for a second frowning down at John who stood up to grab his coat. "You just had a wrestling match with a man twice your size and got yourself punched in the face…" he stated as though this was in itself a deduction leading to John going with him home.

"Yes, and I'm fine and now I want a chance to relax and frankly trying to watch telly while I worry that you're about to blow our flat up is not all that relaxing." John realized this might have sounded harsher than he had intended so he lowered his voice and smiled at Sherlock. "Go home, do your thing, try not to blow anything up and I'll be home in a couple of hours."

"Right, see you." Sherlock turned around and was out of the building in one fluid motion. He wasn't entirely sure why it bothered him that John had chosen the pub with Scotland Yard instead of coming home with him but it left him feeling just a little less happy as he set off back to Baker Street.


	2. Chapter 2

The pub was not too busy and the whole team crammed themselves in around the small tables drinking and laughing. It was a pleasant atmosphere of camaraderie and relief at finally having the killer under lock and key. They would all have to be in the next morning to deal with the paperwork but until then they were allowed to not worry about any more abused bodies turning up while they enjoyed themselves. As one pint turned into two, then three, the sound level picked up, the jokes got ruder and the digs at each other less gentle.

John had to steel himself as every other sentence was starting to sound like an insult of his flat mate's lack of social niceties. He forced his face to go blank and refused to meet anyone's eye as they quipped about 'the freak' and how unnatural he was. He felt like lashing out, the alcohol numbing his inhibitions, his fists clenched at his sides and he finally snapped "If you could, kindly refrain from being quite this unpleasant when he did just solve your case" he blurted out standing quickly.

Lestrade's hand was on his arm holding him back as silence settled over the tables. "I'm sure they meant no harm, sit down, last rounds on me" Lestrade tried to calm the situation down even though he was fairly certain that in fact some harm had been intended from some of the younger officers who did not understand the usefulness of Sherlock. "What do you want John?" he said gently as John took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down. He nodded at Lestrade, appreciating his attempt to keep the peace. "Just a half then. Thanks. I need the loo."

John walked off as calmly as he could while Lestrade took the others orders. Standing in front of the mirror in the toilet he splashed cold water on his face and calmed down enough to shake his head at his own outburst. Sherlock was a pain, he had told him so often enough, why should it bother him when others pointed it out. It wasn't as though he had a monopoly on being frustrated with Sherlock.

He studied his own reflection in the mirror for a few seconds longer sighing at the bruise that had spread across his cheekbone, the surgery would not appreciate that he thought and then turned to actually relieve himself. Then he was going to go out and have fun and then join Sherlock at home and try not to get too annoyed with him. After all if he was willing to defend him in public he should be willing to make an effort in private.

Outside the team was back to laughing and if John had been a little more paranoid he might have guessed that as he and Lestrade left it would be him and not Sherlock who became the topic of conversation.

"Wow, someone got riled up" a young officer with hair so short it was almost shaved smirked as John's back disappeared into the bathroom.

"Well, the idiot is attached to the freak" Sally noted, her tone not actually trying to be cruel, she was merely stating a fact.

"Couldn't tell what on earth he sees in that one." Phillip, a young bulky man with red unruly hair and dark eyes huffed.

"Good in bed?" quipped the almost shaven officer chuckling at his own joke.

"Doubt it Thomas, everyone says Sherlock's a virgin." Sally smiled and lowered her eyes a little.

"Ah, poor little sod, pining after the virgin miss fit. Even for a gay that has got to be a low water mark." Thomas was getting into this, enjoying the attention as his colleagues smirked at his comments. "He isn't much of a man himself, about as tall as a ten year old, and did you see the shiner he took from that perp today" it made him feel good to be able to put down the doctor who in his opinion had no place in their team and was getting far too much of Lestrade's respect and attention.

"Actually, I think…" Sally began hesitantly. She rather liked John in a distant sort of way even though she could not see what on earth made him tug along with Sherlock and get in their way all the time. He was kind and patient and Sally was pretty sure that he was more than able to take care of himself, he had after all overpowered their suspect despite the man being twice his size. She was about to say as much when someone else broke in.

"The little gay could probably do with a real man and it would either put him out of his misery or make him realize that the freak is in fact just a sissy with an addled brain" it was Officer Richard Summers, a brute of a man who was so homophobic that Sally secretly suspected that he was in fact in the closet himself. He was also incidentally Thomas's best friend.

At this point Sally was feeling very uneasy and she shook her head with emphasis. "That's enough" she said sternly, she was after all the senior officer among them and it was her job to point out when the jibes had gone too far. "He's a good man, a doctor and a soldier so I think that makes him more of a man than either of you." She was surprised at herself, defending a man she was usually making fun of herself. Still she never did it out of cruelty and Thomas and Richard had clearly taken the joke one step too far.

"Well we all know what soldiers do in their bunks at night" Thomas tried but not with the same force as before.

"Want him for yourself Sally?" Summers attempted and was not sure if he was pleased or worried when Sally rose to her feet the colour having risen to her face.

"I'd have him over you any day you arrogant sod" She spat "and if I hear you speaking about a colleague in that sort of language ever again I'll report you to Lestrade and we'll see what that does to your careers" she continued.

Lestrade had heard the commotion and turned around with a frown on his face. "Sally can I get some help with these drinks if you're on your feet" Lestrade called. Sally stalked over, relieved to be able to get away from the drunken idiots at her table. "Not like he's actually a colleague" she heard them giggle as she left to give Lestrade a hand.

"Donovan, what happened?" Lestrade reverted to using her last name, sounding every bit like her superior rather than her friend. She bit her lower lip and hesitated, but she was not willing to get a colleague in trouble, after all she had just been standing there arguing that the team had to stick together so she forced herself to take a deep breath and shook her head just as she saw John emerge out of the gents. No, she wouldn't make this official, it wasn't worth it. "Nothing sir, they've just had too much to drink" she hesitated "and maybe so have I given my reaction."

They carried the drinks over to the table and the conversation settled into less volatile topics but the tension was still there.

Sally downed her drink in record time and nodded to Andersson who got the hint, they absented themselves within minutes.

John suspected that it was possible to cut the tension in the room with a knife and he did not see why his interruption of the riling against Sherlock should have caused such a change in the atmosphere. All the happy enthusiasm from earlier seemed to have evaporated and he had a distinct feeling that some of the younger officers were looking at him with something resembling disgust. He chatted softly with Lestrade while he emptied his drink and then rose to leave.

"I should go home. Make sure Sherlock hasn't wrecked the whole flat while left to his own devices." He forced a smile at Lestrade and nodded at the rest of the team "see you all tomorrow!" Lestrade rose and followed him as he left the pub catching up to him outside the doors. "You ok John?" he asked looking a little sad. "They can be brats but they're good officers really."

John just nodded. "I know, I shouldn't let it get to me, after all Sherlock rubs everyone up the wrong way I'm surprised more people don't go around slagging him off. It's not like we never do!" they both chuckled slightly at the thought of other evenings spent in pubs frustratedly moaning to each other about the impossibility of dealing with Sherlock. "It's fine, he probably wouldn't even have minded had he been here." Lestrade nodded slowly. "See you tomorrow then."

Lestrade returned to the pub to finish his drink to find his team greatly dwindled during his chat with John. The tension however seemed to have drained away and smiles ones again abounded as they finished their drinks and went home, a contented feeling buzzing in Lestrade's head at having once again solved a case. Yes, it was technically Sherlock who had solved it and John who had overpowered the suspect but after all it was he who had chosen to bring them in so he could hopefully take just a pinch of the credit, not to mention that officially he and his team would in fact get all the credit.


	3. Chapter 3

John walked the streets leisurely instead of taking a cab, the weather was nice, cold but crisp with a starry sky and he felt a childish need to walk off some of the buzz of the alcohol before he returned home to Sherlock's pouting, for he had no doubt that Sherlock was in a bit of a huff about John having chosen to go to the pub instead of coming home to service him with cups of tea and a willing ear for his musings.

He was halfway to Baker Street when he heard someone calling his name. He wheeled around to find that some of the chaps from Lestrade's team were closing in on him. "Wait up, we just want to talk to you."

Alarm-bells went off in John's mind. The tone was not really friendly and after the tension in the pub he did not expect them to be coming to praise him on a job well done. However, he was not going to run from them, that was a ridiculous notion, he was a grown man and a soldier, he would never live it down at the precinct if he turned tail and ran because a few of the officers chose to haggle him. Still his mind, spiked with the added stimulant of the alcohol was telling him to steel himself against whatever was coming because no matter what they had to say it would not be nice and he wanted to do anything in the world to keep this from turning into a fight. Since there were four of them he was unlikely to walk away on top even with his fighting skills but that was not as big a worry as what they would say in the office if John took a swing at one of them.

"Officers." He smiled politely "what can I do for you?" he tried to sound calm and pleasant without being threatening or dishonest even though the words were completely constructed and his back had shot ramrod straight, army training manifesting itself unconsciously.

"Going home to your little boyfriend?" asked one of the men, John had a vague feeling his name was Burke but he wasn't sure.

"Sherlock is not my boyfriend, we're just friends" John was so used to making this comment it was beginning to feel like a strange kind of mantra.

"Yes, we've heard." An officer with very short hair and flashing blue eyes chuckled. Tom? John thought. His voice was ever so slightly slurred by the alcohol but his gaze was cruel and calculating as he continued "We heard you were pining away for him but he won't have you. Frigid little virgin apparently. Does it hurt to know that he doesn't think you good enough. I mean he's clearly gay with that floppy hair and that ridiculous coat"

John clenched his teeth to stop himself from shouting obscenities at the man. "Look you got it all wrong…" he was trying to sound as normal as possible despite the rage growing in his gut.

"I think you need someone to teach you how to be a man so that you can train your little loverboy" the man in front of John was actually chuckling and John felt an icy dread mingling with the anger in the pit of his stomach. "Look you don't want to do anything stupid, accosting civilians in the street won't do your careers any good" he hoped that their self-preservation would kick in but he couldn't have been more wrong. "You have already done enough damage to our careers, it's time for payback, and you won't tell anyone where you learnt these things" Thomas' grin widened and he nodded to the others, "let's have some fun".

John reacted on autopilot as the men approached, lashing out at sensitive places, eyes, noses, groins, kicking and hitting for all that his training was worth. He got in a good hit on the leader who's name might be Tom or something vaguely like it. There was a smaller man who John really had no idea what he was called but he knew he had something to do with forensics who went down with a single kick but John had always known that it wouldn't be enough. A large fist collided with his already injured cheek and he fell, bracing himself against the impact as he slammed into the ground.

With the wind knocked out of him and stars flitting before his eyes he did not have enough time to recover and they were on him dragging him into a side-street and behind a dumpster. Several kicks landed against John's upper body and he was grateful for a second that these were police-officers and not professional kidnappers, there were no steel toes. Yet they still dug into his chest making him gasp for air.

The minute they stopped he tried to force himself up and away from them but that landed him a kick to his previously injured cheek which forced tears to his eyes as his vision swam a little. "Jesus, avoid the head, people will be able to tell" the man whom John had already pinned as the leader snapped though his voice sounded forced, strained.

"You broke my fucking nose… Fuck" he continued and John almost smiled at the idea of having done at least some damage before they got him to the ground. At least if they didn't want the beating to show they weren't intending to kill him. He figured that this had never really been a likely scenario given that they were police officers and part of Lestrade's team, but then as much as John had never entertained the idea that one of Lestrade's officers would ever want to kill him, he had in fact never thought that he would have four of them beating the living daylights out of him either.

"Why?" he gasped and spat out the blood that was gathering in his mouth.

"Because, you are a pain in my arse, you waltz in with your little PI friend and think that you're so much better than the rest of us. Mr Brainiac and Mr Military training… well you're training isn't doing you much good right now is it."

John swallowed and tried to keep his voice steady as he lifted his head to look at them "Four against one isn't really fair" he smiled crookedly up at them, it was going to take more than a beating to break John Watson. He was dragging himself to a sitting position against the wall maintaining eye contact. "Let's pretend this never happened, we'll all regret this tomorrow when the alcohol is out of our systems" he was terribly out of breath and his nose was bleeding into his mouth making him feel rather disgusting but he tried to sound reasonable

"I won't say anything, just go home to your wives, or girlfriends or boyfriends, your cat's for all I care…" the moment the words were out of his mouth he knew he had gone wrong and that he would be paying for it. In short he had done a Sherlock and let whatever popped into his head come out of his mouth without thinking of how others might react.

"We said we would teach you a lesson and we're not leaving until you have learnt it." It wasn't the same officer speaking this time. 'Richard' something or other, John thought to himself, not even sure why he made such an effort to remember their names. He had been one of the first at the scene, helping John to restrain the suspect once John had got him to the ground.

"Consider it lessoned learnt" John wanted to sound serious but he had a feeling it came out as something of a whimper.

"Oh no that wasn't the lesson, turn him over boys" Richard seemed to have stepped forward taking the lead and John felt ice race through his veins as he forced himself to accept what he had known from the start was their intention but which he still did not really want to acknowledge.

There was no pretending that he wasn't afraid, he knew what they were going to do and he knew that it would hurt like hell. When they jumped on him and turned him face first into the ground he tried to shout for help. Captain John Watson had been reducing to screaming for help from random passers-by but he didn't care, anything to make this not happen.

Something was forced into his mouth then, it tasted like leather and he figured it was someone's glove and then a woollen scarf was tied over his mouth and around his head. His nose had stopped bleeding but it was still swollen and John felt waves of panic wash over him as he struggled to breath. Someone pulled his trousers down roughly and he felt the gravel dig into his cock and the cold air brushing over his backside. He really could not breathe now and the world was sliding further and further away. He thought he heard someone swear and then the gag was off and he gasped in air sending pain flaring through his bruised chest and back. It didn't matter though as he greedily sucked air into his lungs and the world came slowly back into some semblance of focus.

"Jesus, we could have killed him… I really don't know about this." It was the little man from forensics whom John had managed to fell in the original tousle. "To late to back out now". Growled Richard and forced John back onto his front.

Someone put a foot on each of John's wrists and pressed down hard enough to make him whimper. Scream and I will break your wrists, see how good a surgeon you'll be after that. John didn't even try to correct him and tell him that he was in fact no longer a surgeon, he had no energy to fight any more, it was so obviously useless, instead he tried to relax and think of something else. The case they had solved, cups of tea, what on earth Sherlock's experiment might be. When Richard pushed into him he could not help but scream and the added pressure on his wrists only added to the pain.

The pressure was released from his wrists and a large hand placed over his mouth, muffling the sound of his screams but not cutting off all of his air supply. There was grunting and grinding and pain and then everything was still.

John was crying now, unable to stop himself and once the hand was removed from his face he gasped out half choked cries of "Please don't" there was relative silence in the alley apart from John's desperate sobs and then he could hear voices

"He's been attacked. It's pretty bad but we have an ambulance coming. He's a little hysterical though" It was Burke and he was talking to someone. "Please help me." He screamed releasing his last shred of dignity as he called to the unknown people standing at the entrance to the alley. He blinked against the pain and fear and made out two silhouettes; girls, just girls. He let his head fall to the ground and closed his eyes listening to Burke sending the two girls on their way, telling them to be careful and stay on the main road because who knew if the attacker was still out there. If only they knew John thought.

The next half an hour passed in a blur. John wasn't sure if they all had a go, he was aware of the man from forensics making flustered attempts to get out of it and the others goading him on but at some point it all melted into one, he couldn't be sure who had done what, he just lay there and let them batter his body to pieces.

When it was over they rolled him over again and he curled in on himself an instinctive reaction and he hated himself for it. "Remember our deal. You don't tell anyone" Thomas growled his voice husky and with that they were gone.


	4. Chapter 4

John lay there letting the cold seep into his bones until his teeth were chattering and he realized he was seriously risking hypothermia. His mind was almost blank and he focused only on the practicality of getting himself up and dressed. It was hard to keep entirely focused because his mind felt very numb and his vision seemed to want to play tricks with him.

Finally he stood staring ahead of himself and steeled himself for what was to come. 'You don't tell anyone', he felt like laughing, who would he tell. He had just been mercilessly raped by four policemen, friends of his friends, he was absolutely under no circumstances going to tell anyone about this. How on earth he would keep it from Sherlock he didn't know but he would have to.

The walk home was excruciating, he was sick twice and several times he thought that his legs were going to give way and he would not be able to get back up. He knew for a fact that they were no longer inside him but he still felt the throb of his inside as though someone was pumping up and into him. Probably the swelling he tried to analyse, it will stop, it has to stop. When he finally stood outside 221B he was ready to collapse, the world around him seemed to be constantly swaying and the pain was so all encompassing that he didn't know where one area of pain ended and the next began. He was going to have to have a look at himself before going to bed. He dreaded it but there was no choice, he had to know how bad things were.

With teeth gritted he made his way up the stars in steps that were not at all as steady as he would have liked, forcing himself not to stop on the way so as not to make Sherlock suspicious. As he got to the landing he could hear Sherlock rummaging around in the kitchen, still at his experiment, probably a good thing John thought as he gingerly shrugged out of his jacket.

"I'm going to have a bath and then I'm going to bed" he stated as loudly as he could manage without his voice breaking. Sherlock merely hummed slightly from the kitchen, clearly completely absorbed in his work. John made it to the bathroom and sank down on the toilet seat as he turned the taps on drawing a bath. Normally he would have preferred a shower but he did not feel like standing up for any length of time so a bath would have to do.

Slowly and gingerly he started to strip off his clothes, forcing himself to be silent as he jostled sore bruises and aching limbs. His hands didn't quite want to work, he was shaking and bending his right wrist felt like someone was stabbing nails through it. With his shirt off he could tell that he would have to be careful to hide this from Sherlock.

The wrists were the worst off and he was not entirely sure that nothing has been cracked in the right one because three of his fingers really did not want to bend without excruciating pain, but his whole upper body was artistically covered in marks that he knew would turn into full blown bruises.

He stood and pulled down his jeans, then the world swam and he was on the floor. He wasn't sure if it was the sudden movement, the head injury, the pain in his inside or the sight of his jeans covered in blood that had sent him to the floor but he scrambled up again, head into the bowl of the toilet, and retched and retched even though his stomach was empty.

Sherlock was on his feet and running toward the bathroom as soon as he heard the thump and the desperate retching. "John?" Sherlock pounded on the door but his only reply was more sounds of John retching. "John are you alright?"

Nothing now, just silence and Sherlock started to feel a little panicked. "John, answer me right now or I will break this door down." He had never broken a door down in his life despite the many strange situations he had found himself in, resourcefulness was usually his forte, not brute strength.

He was just about to turn around and get his lock picking tools, a far more sensible choice than trying to break the door he figured when a weak reply from the other side of the door reached him.

"Sorry, Sherlock, too much to drink" John managed as he leaned against the wall trying to catch his breath "I just need to sleep it off." His voice was slurred but he figures it may at least partly be genuinely due to the three and a half pints he had managed during the evening. What had he been thinking?

Sherlock breathe a sigh of relief, "Told you that you should have come home with me, you'll only have yourself to blame when you feel like death warmed over tomorrow." Sherlock shrugged and returned to his experiment.

John lay in the scalding bath watching it slowly turn pink as his blood dissolved in it. He knew it always looks more when dissolved in a bath so he wasn't too worried. When the water started to turn cold he gingerly picked himself up and dried off with slow and measured movements. He was still bleeding but not as badly. 'Good' he thought as he carefully made his way back to his bedroom. He was terrified of the idea of having to get medical attention for this. He was worried enough about the wrist, no way of explaining _that_ particular kind of bleeding off to any medical professional. He played with the pill bottle he still had sat in his bedside table from when he still woke up with pain shooting through his leg for no apparent reason. He knew he shouldn't take anything with the amount he had had to drink but at that moment he honestly didn't care. He swallowed two little pills down and with a towel pressed between his legs to protect the sheets he slipped off into a fretful sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

John woke to an insistent throbbing of dull pain that seemed to be coming from everywhere at the same time and there was no reprieve from remembering the events of last night. He moved gingerly, knowing that there would be pain but not able to pinpoint exactly from where.

Sitting up was had, his ribs protest and his wrist was pure agony. He lifted it carefully and noted that this was one injury he would not be able to hide… it has swollen to twice it's normal size and was throbbing horribly as he tried to move his fingers. He would have to go to the surgery to have it checked out. Hopefully Sarah would help. Slowly he forced himself to acknowledge the injury that he wishes he could pretend was not there and removed the towel from between his legs. It was stiff and crusted with blood but John was relieved to find that he did not seem to be bleeding any longer. He would be alright then. Just get his wrist sorted out, he could blame that on the fight last afternoon and maybe claim that he jostled it going home drunk, it would be alright. He took a few shallow breaths, that was still all he could manage, and made his way slowly to the wardrobe to dress and make his way downstairs. This was going to be the performance of a lifetime.

Sherlock was in the living room with all his focus on the laptop when John entered making his way over to the kettle to make tea. Keeping up appearances was paramount John reminded himself. He didn't think he would be able to eat anything but if he didn't make his usual cup of tea Sherlock would start to suspect that something was different so he better try to make sure he kept up every routine he could.

"How are we feeling today, bit of a heavy head?" Sherlock joked, but did not look up from his book.

"I've been better" John moaned and was actually relieved that the throwing up from last night that forced him to claim drunkenness, he wouldn't have had the foresight otherwise and this was a good cover. "Actually Sherlock, do you think you can go to see Lestrade on your own and make your excuses for me coming a bit later." John tried as he jostled the teacups and kettle.

"I don't think Lestrade will take a hangover as an excuse not to do the paperwork John." Sherlock stated with all the expected lack of sympathy.

"Sorry, but I think I took an unexpected hit yesterday in that tussle, my wrist has swollen up overnight and I need to get Sarah to have a look at it." John hated himself for bringing it to Sherlock's attention… threats of "You tell no one" were ringing through his head but he knew that if it was in fact broken he wouldn't be able to hide it indefinitely and this would be his best chance at an excuse.

Sherlock was out of his chair and in the kitchen in the space of seconds. John inwardly laughed at his flatmates claims of being a sociopath… he knew few people able to express concern quite so quickly, even though it was often in unexpected ways.

"Show me" Sherlock stated as John fumbled with mugs trying to keep his right hand out of sight. In the end John had known as soon as he admitted to the injury that there would be no hiding it, and in actual fact his reticence to show it to Sherlock was half playing for the galleries, half trying to act normal. He hated being injured and even under normal circumstances he would not want to show his weakness to Sherlock. He offered a cup of tea to Sherlock who took it, set it aside and held out a hand to reach for the one John was adamantly keeping tucked at his side. At that point John relented, something which he had known all along that he would have to do, and slowly gingerly rolled up the sleeve of his swollen right hand.

Sherlock drew in a breath and held it. John's wrist wasn't just a bit swollen, it was black and blue and about twice its normal size. Even the fingers had swollen up to look unnaturally thick, like discoloured sausages. "How did you not notice this?" Sherlock gasped his eyes fixed on John's hand as his fingers carefully danced over the fragile skin "How did _I_ not notice this?" the second was less of a question and more of an accusation.

John wanted to pull his hand out of Sherlock's grasp and hide it behind his back but it hurt too much. "I'll have Sarah take a look at it, get an x- ray, I'll be fine, just will you tell Lestrade? I need you to let him know why I will be late and defend me from Andersons jabs about my frailty when he hears I'm at the doctors."

As soon as John had said it he knew that it was the right thing to say. It may not be fair, but any suggestion that Anderson may speak less of John for getting injured snapped Sherlock out of his confused reverie and he had his coat on before John could even ask if Sherlock wanted the tea steeping on the counter.


	6. Chapter 6

John had been right in his suspicions, but he was not happy about it. Sarah had taken one look at his discoloured wrist and sent him for an x-ray, which had proven that his wrist was indeed broken. He was told that he was lucky that he didn't need surgery, something that he already knew, and then he had his wrist fixed in a sturdy cast and went home with a frustrating sheet of exercises to do to keep his muscles and tendons working as it would heel, as well as a bottle of painkillers.

The world was beginning to feel fussy at the edges by the time John arrived at New Scotland Yard, he was so tired he struggled to keep on his feet and so he stopped in a café outside to gather his strength and have a coffee and a sandwich. Halfway through his meal he received a worried text from Sherlock.

How is the wrist? -SH

Ok, I'm on my way –JW

John sighed as he chewed his sandwich and tried to steel himself against the idea of entering the Scotland Yard office. He was going to deal with this, it would all be alright… he was just not going to think about it.

Didn't look ok, what did Sarah Say? –SH

John stood up without finishing his lunch… better go calm his friend's hyperactive senses, if nothing else he could be useful in reigning in Sherlock's destructive force.

Fine, it's broken but set and it will heal, I'll be with you in five. JW

John took as deep a breath as his bruised ribs would allow and slowly made himself go upstairs to confront Sherlock, Lestrade and if things went bad the whole of the team from last night.

Walking gingerly up the stairs he tried to think of nothing other than the case they had just solved. He tried to make his mind work like Sherlock's, observing details and thinking only of what was practical. Anything to keep his heart and breathing from racing and to not loose control.

It was thankfully calm in the offices. He opted for the only thing he could think of and locked his eyes on Lestrade's office, he moved through the open planned office without ever taking his eyes off Lestrade's door. He felt fear tingle along his back but kept himself moving, in only a few moments he would be through that door and he would be okay. He opened the office door without knocking even though it was out of character, he could not be expected to remember every nuance of good manners that he usually upheld.

Sherlock and Lestrade both looked up as he entered. "How is the wrist?" Sherlock asked moving toward him. "Fractures to the Capitate and the Trapezium but nothing that won't heal, I'll be absolutely fine" John tried to sound flippant about it but there was a thoughtfulness to Sherlock's face when he looked at John that was worrying.

"I'm sorry John. We should have had you checked out properly yesterday." Lestrade apologised even though it had been John himself who had refused any medical attention. Of course back then he hadn't needed any but that was a different matter. For now he was going to have to pretend that he had in fact been wrong to refuse help. An unfortunate side effect of the current predicament since his medical capabilities when it came to judging his own injuries were now likely to be questioned in future.

"Don't worry about it." John tried to make his smile look as natural as possible. "Let's just get this over with." Lestrade nodded and picked up the phone "Could you send up Summers to take Doctor Watsons formal statement" he asked into the receiver and then returned to going over the crime scene photo's with Sherlock.

Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door and it opened to reveal officer Summers' towering bulk. John was frozen in place, unable to rise or speak. His tormentor from last night didn't even look at him but stared straight at Lestrade who looked up from his work and raised his eyebrows at the sight of the larger man.

"Summers, what happened to your nose?" he looked puzzled, knowing that the man had not had a nose the size of a potato and the colour of a threatening storm cloud the previous evening when they had parted ways. "It's nothing, I slipped on the stairs and knocked it on the banister." Summers lied eloquently. He had likely been telling this story all morning as an attempt to cover up how his nose had really ended up twisted out of shape.

"You wanted me to take the Doctors statement?" the bulky man directed the question to Lestrade but his gaze turned on John who was frantically trying to keep his breaths even and the panic out of his eyes. There was a silent warning in Summers' eyes as he stared calmly at the smaller man and smiled a polite smile.

"Yes if you wouldn't mind. " Lestrade nodded and looked with slight concern at John who appeared to look very pale "That is if you're up to it John." John did not reply, he did not trust his own voice to not betray him. But he stood and looked back at Summers without flinching, the calm exterior of the petrified soldier who will not let the enemy see his weakness plastered across his face and Summers' smile widened "We better do as we're told" he laughed at John and there was no doubt that there was a double message hidden in there.


	7. Chapter 7

Summers was entirely professional through the whole of the hour long interview as John gave his statement, recounting the events of the search for and capture of the criminal the previous day. Nothing revealed that anything would have happened between them the previous night, nothing that is but the shaking of John's hands which he held firmly in his lap out of view of the Officer.

He answered all the questions mechanically and without thinking, all the while fixing Summers with his eyes observing every twitch and movement in the greater man's body. He was grateful for the recording device on the table which documented the whole conversation as it all but guaranteed him a modicum of safety, something he knew he would never feel in quite the same way inside this building again.

Scotland Yard had always been a safe haven despite its association with crimes and fraught situations. It was not supposed to be where the threat came from, not the source of danger but a tool in the solution to it.

When they finished Summers turned the recorder off and leaned forward in the chair. "Well done loverboy." He leered at John who clenched his fists in his lap and stood to leave the room. When he got to the door he realised that the door was locked and fear surged up in him unbidden. "It's an interrogation room, I have to let you out" Summers sounded amused as he stood and approached John.

Before John could get out of the way to let him open he had his arms wrapped around him locking him in place before the door "Remember what we said, not a word to that little friend of yours, unless you want us to give him the same lesson" he breathed in John's ear the warmth of his breath making the hairs on Johns arms stand on end.

Summers unlocked the door and pushed John out then headed straight for Lestrade's office. John did not follow, could not, there was a ringing in his yars and his stomach was doing somersaults and he threw himself toward the toilet hoping desperately that he would make it before his stomach ejected lunch.

He did not know how long he spent on the cold floor throwing up, gagging desperately even when there was no longer anything left to throw up. His whole body was trembling and it was a great effort to stand up. Spots danced before his eyes as he leaned on the sink turning the water on to wash his face and mouth.

He did not touch the water merely stood there watching it swirl down the drain. He squeezed the edges of the sink to the point where his broken wrist was throbbing clinging on to the pain to try to will himself not to spill the tears he could feel burning behind his eyes.

The sound of grunting and laughing filled his head and when he closed his eyes he could see Summers face grinning at him. He would not forget his name now. Then suddenly there were hands on him and adrenaline surged helping him to lash out in furious rage. This would not happen again, not again. He would die before he let them do that to him again. He hit, kicked, screamed, and when the hands were suddenly gone he scrambled back until his back hit hard against the furthest wall where he stood panting the spots dancing before his eyes slowly clearing.

As his eyes focused he saw Lestrade sitting on the floor, a stunned look on his face and worry in his eyes. "John, calm down, I won't touch you, it's okay" Lestrade's voice was steady and it brought him back to reality somewhat but only for a second before he realised what he had done. He had given himself away, he had attacked Lestrade and now they would all find out… and they would go after Sherlock next… The spots were returning and Lestrade's voice came back but seemingly from some distance "John, calm down, you're hyperventilating" and John knew that Lestrade was right but he did not know what to do to make it stop. Deep breaths was not an option, his chest hurt too much and his heart was beating so hard. He knew before it happened that he was going to pass out and was vaguely aware of his legs giving out and crumbling to the floor.


	8. Chapter 8

When Summers entered the office alone Lestrade had been surprised. "Where is John?" he asked as he accepted the recording device holding John's statement. "Went to the bog I think" Summers answered flippantly as he left to get back to his other duties. "I'm going to go tell him that he can go home. He really didn't look at all well and we can finish up here on our own" Lestrade told Sherlock who was creating a pattern out of the crime scene photographs on Lestrade's desk, muttering to himself as he did so. "Good, good" he replied and Lestrade wasn't entirely sure if he was aware of what he had just responded to but he nonetheless set off toward the toilets to find John.

When he entered the communal toilet area he was greeted by a sight he had never expected to see. John was stood hunched over one of the sinks, knuckles turning white as he squeezed the edges of it and tears sliding down his face as he stared off into space.

"John?" he approached him slowly but there was no response. He placed a hand gently on Johns arm and the previously still man flew into action. Lestrade was swiftly knocked to the floor, too surprised to defend himself as John hit and kicked. But the attack was short lived and John stumbled backwards until his back hit the furthest wall where he stood stock still and trembling.

"John, calm down, I won't touch you, it's okay" he tried to sound calm and friendly even though his mind was reeling, what on earth had happened, had John had some kind of flashback to the war, what could Summers have said to have set him off like this. Recognition slowly came back into John's eyes and then his breathing started to accelerate.

"John, calm down, you're hyperventilating" Lestrade instructed as he pushed himself to his knees wondering if he should approach John or if that would set him off again. He didn't have to wait long as at that moment John's eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the floor unconscious.

"Shit, John?" he stumbled forward crouching next to the unconscious form on the floor feeling for a pulse. It was steady but too fast and John felt warm to the touch, possibly running a fever. His attempts to rouse John had no effect and he dug out his phone. It felt incredibly strange to call for an ambulance from inside of Scotland Yard but there had to be a first for everything. He dialled the emergency number just as he heard the door open behind him. He turned around and saw his secretary who was looking very shocked to see the two men on the floor. "Get Sherlock from my office, now" he ordered before he proceeded to tell the woman on the phone what had happened.

"Is he injured in any way that you can tell?" She asked calmly. "Yes, he was in a fight yesterday, he took a hit to the head and broke his wrist" a nagging sense of guilt invaded Lestrade's mind as he cursed himself for not having insisted that John get help the previous day. "Any sign of internal injury? Try to look him over without moving him." The woman directed and Lestrade followed orders.

He carefully lifted Johns sweater and stared at the livid bruises this revealed "Uhm, yes, he's covered in bruises, Christ I didn't know, why didn't he say something" Lestrade cursed. "Oh, John." Sherlock's voice came deep and concerned from behind Lestrade and then he was beside them crouching down to run a hand gently over Johns bruised chest. "He's bleeding" Sherlock stated indicating where Johns black trousers were hiding the slowly growing wet stain.

The wait for the ambulance seemed eternal and it was not long until word was spreading through the office that someone had collapsed in the toilet and curious heads began popping in through the door to get a look. Sherlock growled at anyone who dared to show their face and Lestrade tried to keep the curious gossipmongers at bay whilst simultaneously speaking to the woman on the phone. John was slowly beginning to regain consciousness as the medics turned up which made both Sherlock and Lestrade feel a little calmer.


	9. Chapter 9

John regained consciousness as he was being lifted gently onto a stretcher by unfamiliar hands. He was so tired yet his instincts told him to fight, to get away, to run. Strong hands restrained him and then there was a familiar voice beside him speaking to him. "John, don't fight them, it will be ok" Sherlock reached out and gripped his shoulder lightly anchoring him back in the present and John let out an involuntary whimper. Sherlock had no idea at just how not good this was, it was not going to be ok, nothing about this was even approaching being ok. But he stopped struggling, he knew it was futile.

He hurt all over and he could tell that he had just been injected with something because the pain was slowly fading to a dull throbbing. Then he was being wheeled out of the bathroom and shame burned in his face at the faces of the people watching as he was brought to the lift and had to wait for it to arrive.

John tried to look stoically ahead at the back of the head of the medic at the front of the gurney. He hated himself at this moment, with a fire that burned on his face. He hated his weak body that was failing to let him function properly and his addled mind for giving him away.

The medical man in him knew that none of this was actually his fault but it was not enough to hold the feelings back and for a second he really wished that they had killed him instead of leaving him like this. He wanted nothing more than to sink through the earth and disappear but that did not appear to be an option at the moment. Instead he closed his eyes and tried to block the world out as he was wheeled along and out of the building to the waiting ambulance.

The crowd had disappeared as soon as they entered the lift and now it was just Sherlock and Lestrade trailing along with them looking worried and confused. John wished them gone, wished them all gone, his friends with their looks of worry and the medics with their careful hands that invaded his privacy and made him cringe.

He wanted to protest as Sherlock jumped in the ambulance after them but he didn't know how so he just averted his eyes as the ambulance shuddered to a start and the middle aged female medic informed him that she was going to cut his trousers off and to tell her if she hurt him. It did hurt, but not in the way that she meant, there was a heavy blanket of fear, hurt and shame curled up in his stomach, clawing away like a wounded animal at his inside as Sherlock grabbed his hand and looked on while his clothes were removed to reveal his bruised and bleeding body underneath.

He realised he must have torn himself open again while fighting off Lestrade for the woman's hands came away stained with blood as she removed his trousers and placed them in a paper bag. This was his worst nightmare suddenly projected into real life, all his shame splayed out for Sherlock to see. He squeezed his eyes shut and refused to look at any of them, ignored the woman's gentle questions. There was only one thought left to him as the beating of his own heart pounded in his ears "Not a word, or we'll give him the same lesson". He would not speak a word, not one word, no matter how much they prodded and poked and cajoled. Not one word.


	10. Chapter 10

"Christ Sherlock, what happened? Is he alright" Lestrade burst through the doors to the A and E not long after John had been wheeled away and Sherlock himself had been stuffed in a chair with a cup of appalling coffee and told to wait. Waiting was not his forte and he had ignored the coffee in favour of pacing back and forth in the corridor running all the facts over in his head, trying to deduce what had happened to his flatmate and friend.

You did not have to be a genius consulting detective to figure out what the injuries the medics had revealed on their way to the hospital meant. They had assured Sherlock that John was at no risk of bleeding out but that they would have to do a more thorough exam to ensure that he was not bleeding internally and to examine any cause for the slight fever that he was running.

Sherlock turned around when Lestrade entered, his face perfectly calm but the twitch in his fingers revealing his distress. "They won't let me in." his voice was low and measured" Lestrade looked up at him with pity that Sherlock did not appreciate. "Do you know what happened?" he asked placing a hand on Sherlock's forearm.

"Well that is fairly obvious. I think even you can deduce that much. He's been raped. The questions are rather, who, where and why?"

Lestrade flinched at the brutal delivery of facts that, yes, he had in fact been able to figure out for himself, even if he had been hoping that there was another explanation. He would have rather believed that he had been neglectful in getting John help after the case than that his friend had gotten himself in a situation where someone had physically forced himself on him. It did not seem to tally with the ex army doctor. He was always so strong, calm and collected, always taking care of himself and others.

As if reading Lestrade's mind Sherlock went on with his deductions. "There would have had to have been several assailants. John is a good fighter and he would not have let a single perpetrator do this to him. His wrists are injured but not from being tied up so he was not restrained by ropes or handcuffs.

He was fairly alright this morning but he fell apart after his interview which suggests there was something either about the toilet or the interview itself that brought the event back to him. The event may have happened in a toilet or your officer may have asked some question that brought the event back to him. We need to question officer Summers"

Lestrade shook his head at Sherlock's tirade. "Let's just wait and see what John has to say". Lestrade pointed out. He could tell Sherlock was not happy with this plan but he none the less flopped down on one of the couches staring into space and looking artistically thoughtful. It was almost two hours before a doctor emerged looking troubled and scanning the room, his eyes finally coming to rest on Lestrade.

"You're Dr Watson's medical contact?" he questioned, and Sherlock threw himself in-between the two. "No, I am" he stated bluntly. The fire in his eyes making Lestrade back down instinctually as the doctor redirected his eyes to the frantic detective.

"He's stable and relatively alright. He has four cracked ribs and as you know a broken wrist, he needed eight stiches to stop the bleeding but it is under control. He's very bruised and will be in pain for some time but no internal bleeding. The only problem at the moment is that he is unwilling to acknowledge that he was raped. He stoically denies anyone having attacked him and we honestly don't know what to offer until the councillor arrives tomorrow morning.

Lestrade felt unmeasurably uncomfortable, he didn't know what to do. He had met enough rape victims but never anyone he knew personally, it somehow made all of his training null and void. He could feel Sherlock tense beside him but he didn't know how to make it alright.

Half an hour later they were allowed into John's room but the doctor was soundly asleep, sedated to a point beyond recognition. They both sat silently next to John who's breaths were even and measured. They had been ordered to not wake him but Lestrade could tell that Sherlock was fighting himself to keep from forcing John to wake up.

His eyes were glassy and he grabbed onto Johns hand with a force that would be painful if the doctor was actually aware of the situation. Lestrade moved forward, aware that he felt like punching someone himself and knowing that Sherlock was likely to be even more wired. Yet he got no response as he places a hand gently on Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock was miles away… his mind working over clues that would not even occur to Lestrade and suddenly he felt unusually inadequate. He really did care about John, he was a good man who has helped Lestrade out on more than one occasion and the idea of him violated made Lestrade feel something akin to panic, something he could not quite explain but which burst forth from his chest as he saw Sherlock curl in on himself in the plastic chair, hiding the panic that Lestrade himself felt curling up in his gut in a tight ball of pretended control.

"I didn't notice" Sherlock's voice was low and barely more than a whisper but it did not take a genius to tell the self-incrimination that the statement revealed. "It must have happened yesterday on his way back from the pub. He locked himself in the bathroom, said he was drunk. I stupidly believed him. He's never been drunk in the time I've known him. I should have known."

Lestrade wanted to approach the consulting detective, to offer comfort but he really didn't know how to. Instead he stayed back, watching from a distance as Sherlock fussed over his friend, holding his hand, touching his face, all things that seemed very unlike the Sherlock that Lestrade knew.

Eventually he decided that his presence was more of a bother than a help and absented himself. He would come back when John was in a better condition to give a statement and clear up what had happened. If he left now he would get at least an hour or so back at the office before it was time to go home and he really needed to pick up the pieces of the case he had dropped when John had collapsed. He was in charge after all and his colleagues would be expecting directives on what needed doing.

John could feel consciousness pulling him back and forced his eyes to open briefly. He could tell that he has been drugged but he was not entirely sure why. It took him a few moments before he recovered the memory of what had happened, what returned was the certainty of the events from the previous night but only snapshots of what had happened at Scotland Yard, Lestrade sitting on the floor in front of him, the embarrassment of everyone watching as he was brought out of the toilet. The awareness that he was in hospital sent his heart racing… how had he let things get this far… were they going to come after Sherlock now? His head was full of questions, would it be better to warn Sherlock or to keep quiet and hope that his refusal to tell who did it would be enough to make them stay away?

Sherlock stirred in the chair next to the bed and fixed his tired eyes on John who was trying to breath evenly and calmly. No point in panicking when it would clearly not help at all, he has done enough of that for one day. When he saw John looking back at him Sherlock sat erect and his hands reach out to grasp at Johns arm.

"How are you feeling?" he asked uncertainly and John couldn't help but look away as he answered, his eyes fixed on the blanket that covered his aching body. "Fine, I'm fine." Sherlock stood and walked over to the window, staring out of it, his eyes fixed on some point far away. "Don't say that John, I know it isn't true. Don't lie to me. You needed eight stitches; did you really think you were going to be able to hide that from me?"

John winced slightly as he was reminded of the treatment from earlier that day, the horrid stirrups they had placed his legs in to be able to put the stitches in. It hadn't hurt but he had felt so humiliated as the doctor prodded his behind invading the same area that had so recently been taken over by the officers from the yard.

Sherlock noticed the shudder that ran through him and returned to his side. "Why won't you tell them what happened? Why do you protect the people who did this to you?" Sherlock's voice was sad and his eyes bore into John's soul making him feel like he wanted to hide. He pulled his knees up under the blanket curling into himself even though he knew that it would make him look weak and needy. He refused to look at Sherlock knowing that if he did so it would be so much harder to lie.

"Nothing happened." He said, voice detached and mind focused on the ache in his ribs that increased the more he curled up. His breath was coming out in little pained gasps as he pressed his knees to his chest. Sherlock's hand brushed over his back gently.

"Don't do that John, you're hurting yourself, just relax. For me, please…" The words were gentle but they didn't help. John wanted the pain, as much of it as possible to black out the world, something to focus on, so he brutally squeezed the bruised wrist that was not encased in a cast revelling in the pain that shot up his arm and blocked out Sherlock's worried words and the sounds of the call button that he had pressed to call for assistance. When the nurse administered the sedative he was more than a little relieved. He had found escape, a way to hide if only for a little while.


	11. Chapter 11

_John was running, pounding down the street trying to get to Sherlock in time. He couldn't say for certain how he knew that the detective was in danger but he did. Summers and his cohorts had him, of this he was certain. Summers' hard voice rang in his hind sending shivers down his spine. He stumbled into the familiar alley looking around for his attackers but they were all gone. _

_Sherlock lay naked and bleeding on the ground, his wounds a carbon copy of what John had seen in the mirror that morning. Only it looked so much worse to see the livid bruises on his friends pale skin than it had done on himself._

"_Sherlock!" he yelled and threw himself down next to his friend who pulled away from him_

"_Go away!" Sherlock snapped at him "I don't want you here, you did this to me" Sherlock's voice was hard and accusing and behind him he could hear laughter and the harsh taunts of Lestrade's team as they jeered at him, describing in colourful detail what has been done to Sherlock because of John's inability to control his own body. _

He could hear screaming and suddenly he was jolted awake from the dream and back into his hospital bed. He realised that it was his own voice screaming and swiftly covered his mouth with his hands as if to hold the sound in.

The room was dark now and Sherlock was gone. It seemed the staff had actually managed to get him to stick to visiting hours then. It was a relief that he wasn't there to witness John fall apart yet at the same time it was worrying not to know where he was, if he was safe.

John's heart rate picked up as worry for his flatmate brought the images from his nightmare back to him. Sherlock injured and violated because of John. Sherlock not wanting him any longer, and quite rightly because if it hadn't been for John Sherlock would never have been hurt. He tried to remind himself that it was just a dream but it was proving extremely hard.

Anger at his own weakness burned in his chest and the illogical desire to bring back the pain to give himself something to focus on returned. They had given him painkillers so that it wouldn't hurt so much and now he wished he hadn't taken them.

He knew that it was a bad idea, a really bad habit to get into even as he once again turned his attention on the wrist not in a cast and squeezed as hard as he could. This time there was no Sherlock there to hold him back, no nurse to administer liquid oblivion, just him and the aching desire to feel something other than the panic clawing at his chest.

It wasn't satisfactory, the painkillers effectively took the edge off the pain and when he felt the bones under his grasp shift and heard the distinctive crack of a bone breaking he began to cry in earnest, sobbing as even this form of escape had been taken from him.

A young nurse entered the room and bustled over to try to calm the crying man. "Ssh, it's ok, are you in pain?" she soothed and John shook his head. "No, I wanted to be, I think I broke it, didn't mean to do that, I just couldn't breath." He mumbled between sobs and held out his hand. Oh dear, what have you done?" the nurse mumbled as she pressed the alarm button. Ten minutes later John was sedated and on his way to have his wrist x-rayed for the second time that day. He welcomed the darkness that the sedative brought feeling the relief of the calm settle over him and then sleep claimed him.


	12. Chapter 12

When John woke again it was daylight outside and Sherlock was once again sitting perched in the plastic chair next to the bed. John noted sadly that not only was he strapped to the bed but his other wrist now sported a matching cast.

"They told me what you did John" Sherlock sounded sad and a little confused as he moved the chair closer to the bed. "If I release you can you promise me that you won't hurt yourself again?" John nodded slowly but he didn't look quite convinced himself. Sherlock never the less stood and removed the straps that were fixing John to the bed. "I'm going to ask you something and I need you not to freak out on me, okay?" he asked sitting down on the side of the bed.

"Okay." Was John's simple reply, he felt better now that he could see Sherlock in the same room as him and know that his nightmare had been only that, nothing more than his imagination playing tricks on him.

"Was it Summers who did this to you?" Sherlock asked gently noting how John's breathing instantly picked up and his eyes filled with fear. It was all the answer he needed and he barely heard John's whispered denials. "That bastard, I'll kill him" Sherlock sneered and John grasped for him before he could get up.

"Please Sherlock, don't tell anyone, they'll hurt you if they think I said something" John pleaded his face gone suddenly very pale.

"That's what you're worried about?" Sherlock sounded absolutely incredulous "You think if you tell on them they'll come after me next, why would they do that?" he grasped John's trembling fingers where they were sticking out of his cast a confused look on his face. "If you're his type, I'm hardly going to be, now am I? We're as unlike each other as they come."

"They said they would…" John mumbled holding back tears "They're the police… and convictions in… in these kinds of cases are extremely low, you know that Sherlock. I can't have them come after you next. You know it's not about physical appearance or types, it's about power, they're pissed off and they wanted revenge, they got it so let's just leave it at that."

John sounds tired, resigned but still firm in his decision but Sherlock didn't care. He was furious with these men who had taken it upon themselves to hurt John. "Who else, besides Summers? There were several of them right, I could tell he was one of them because of the broken nose and your reaction to him but who were the others? If you want to protect me then at least let me know who I am supposed to be wary of." It was manipulation yes, but Sherlock had never been one to shy away from such means of persuasion.

John nodded softly, once Sherlock had identified Summers there would be no escaping the rapid deductions that would gradually work his way toward identifying them all. At least if he owned up maybe he could convince Sherlock that it really was best to leave matters be. "Ok but you don't tell them, and you don't tell Lestrade. You were right about Tom Summers, and that burly bloke he hangs out with, I think he's called Burke. The little chap from forensics with the glasses and a tall thin guy I don't really know at all. I don't think we need to worry too much about the little guy from forensics though, he was not particularly keen and I think he did it more out of fear of the others:" John explained in a detached voice. He was staring at his encased wrists in his lap adamantly avoiding meeting Sherlock's eyes.

There was a dense silence in the room as both men were deeply ingrained in their own thoughts. Then Sherlock stood abruptly. "I'll be back later." He said as he disappeared down the hall, disregarding John's shouted, "Don't tell them Sherlock!"


	13. Chapter 13

The psych evaluation was torture. The gentle faced psychiatrist asked him about all sorts of things that he did not want to talk about. Still, he knew the answers she wanted and gave them to her.

Had he been sleeping? Yes.

Any nightmares? No.

Did he still want to hurt himself? No.

Any thoughts of suicide? No.

Would he accept an appointment with a councilor once he was released? Yes.

They were not outright lies. It was simply that he did not allow himself to actually think about the questions she was asking, instead giving the answer that would get him out of the hospital the fastest.

It worked and by three o'clock he arrived back at the flat to find Sherlock yelling at the top of his voice.

"Don't you dare tell me you can't. You just don't want to, you heartless bastard."

The phrase sounded odd from the great detective who frequently told anyone who would listen that he himself did not have a heart. This of course was entirely fallacious as John well knew. The only person he could imagine Sherlock viewing as more heartless than himself was his brother and it was therefore no surprise when he entered the flat to find Mycroft stood in the middle of the living room.

"What is going on?" John asked and both brothers turned to face him as he hung up his coat and joined them. Sherlock looked furious but Mycroft wore his usual blank expression.

"He won't help. He could have them all wiped from the face of the earth if he wanted but he simply won't help." Sherlock spat the words out, anger dripping from his voice.

"What? Oh…" realization dawned on John and his stomach clenched as he turned bright red, shame burning on his face "You told him."

"He did. I'm sorry John" Mycroft's voice betrayed no emotion and John did not know whether he was apologising for his brother's betrayal or commiserating over the rape itself. It didn't really matter in the end, John didn't care. "You promised Sherlock…" the hurt in John's voice was not even thinly veiled.

"No I didn't. I promised not to tell Lestrade or your attackers, I said nothing about Mycroft" Sherlock's statement, though in fact true, felt like a slap to the face and John did not know how to respond. His throat felt thick and he could feel anger mix with the shame making his face burn even more hotly. "Don't Sherlock, just don't" he snapped and turned on his heel, escaping to his room where he curled up on the bed, arms wrapped around himself willing himself not to cry.

There was a soft knock on the door a few minutes later but John tried to ignore it.

"John, can I come in?" came Sherlock's muffled voice from the other side of the door.

"Go away, I don't want to see you right now." John ordered, willing Sherlock to listen to him and actually leave him alone. He felt terrible despite the painkillers but the shame of knowing that Mycroft knew what had happened hurt more than the physical pain.

"Please John." Sherlock opened the door uninvited and slipped inside. "I brought tea" he said by manner of an apology offering John a mug which he did not take. Sherlock set the mug down on the bedside table and sat down next to John on the bed.

Sherlock's presence made John feel strangely uncomfortable but at least he didn't touch him and John was relieved at small mercies. "No you really didn't, I specifically asked you not to" he could hear the slight waver in his own voice which gave away just how upset he was. He was angry with Sherlock for telling Mycroft, angry with Mycroft for knowing, with himself for telling Sherlock in the first place… but if what he felt was anger then why did he feel like he was about to burst into tears, it made no sense.

"What they did to you, it's not okay. They should be punished." Sherlock argued. His hands were restlessly clenching and unclenching in his lap as he spoke.

"Don't you think I know that?" John shot upright suddenly, wincing as pain flared through his chest "It is absolutely not in any way okay, but if I report them they won't be the ones to be punished, I will, or worse you will." At that the dams burst and hot tears rolled down his cheeks against his will. He swiped furiously at them but they were swiftly replaced by new ones.

"John…" Sherlock reached a hand out to touch John's shoulder but it met with only air as John scrambled backwards off the bed.

"Don't touch me, Sherlock. Just leave me alone" he said as he backed up against the wall. His heart was beating fast in his chest. He felt trapped, physically and emotionally. All he wanted was to be left alone with his misery. He watched Sherlock stand and leave, a sad look on his face and when the door closed he slumped to the floor and allowed himself to give in to the tears. He sobbed desperately, hiding his face in his knees to muffle the sounds as he cried like he couldn't remember crying since he was a child.


	14. Chapter 14

John did not emerge from his room all day.

An hour after Sherlock had brought him the tea Sherlock's mobile chimed with a message and he was surprised to find that it was from his flatmate upstairs. 'Don't leave the flat without me. You know why' it read. Sherlock knew that this was something he could use to his advantage if he needed to get John to come out but for now he would wait and hope that John came out by his own free will.

Lestrade called after he had gone to the hospital and found that John had got himself discharged but Sherlock convinced him that it was prudent to wait another night before trying to talk to John again. He told him John was asleep even though he had no idea if this was true or not.

When Mrs Hudson called in to ask if they needed anything from Tesco's he told her they were fine and made no mention of the fact that John was currently locked in his room.

He told himself that he was protecting John by keeping what had happened from their landlady, but the truth was that he had absolutely no idea how to go about telling sweet Mrs Hudson what had been done to John.

With Mycroft it had been different. He could rely on facts and he knew there would be no emotional outbursts. The opposite was true of Mrs Hudson. Hence they were all better off if she didn't know.

So Sherlock sat alone in the living room all evening and through the night. Neither of them slept at all that first night.

Sherlock paced back and forth in their small flat, acting for all intents and purposes lika a caged animal.

He'd tried for hours to search his mind palace for some indication as to what might be the best way to act. He had turned the room that contained all his information on John inside out and added a whole new room to contain a vast array of research on rape trauma, but however hard he worked he could not make a valid connection between the two.

Actually he had made quite a few connections. They just weren't the kinds of connections that told him how to act.

He knew to look out for both physical (John had bruises, broken bones and stitches) and emotional (John had been crying) trauma.

He knew that victims often wanted to isolate themselves (John was hiding in his room), that they often did not like to be touched (John had flinched away from him), that self harm was common (John had broken his own wrist), as were suicide attempts (no, John would never be that stupid, delete that).

All he wanted was to find that right piece of information that would tell him how to fix John, how to undo what had been done. Still he knew he would never find it, because it was impossible to undo the past so what he had to do was find a solution to the future. Something to bring the old John back to him and the bastards at the yard their just deserts, which in Sherlock's opinion included a very prolonged and painful death.

John spent the whole night on his bed curled into a ball, trying not to think about what had happened or what might happen next. He failed miserably, he was able to think of little else.

He wanted to protect Sherlock, wanted to never let him out of his sight again. Yet at the same time he couldn't bare to look at him, didn't want to see the pity in his eyes, didn't want to ever leave his room again.


	15. Chapter 15

When Lestrade arrived at ten o'clock in the the morning it was to find a rather dishevelled Sherlock opening the door and he was instantly worried.

"He's not doing great then?" he asked aware that since John had moved in, not once had Sherlock been the one to open the door. In fact John seemed to be the one to do all faintly menial tasks around the flat.

"No, he's locked himself in his room." Sherlock looked rather sad which in and of itself was disconcerting enough.

"I made him cry… I told Mycroft who did it and it made him cry… I have never seen him cry before." Sherlock sounded utterly bewildered and Lestrade unintentionally took pity on him.

"I have…"Lestrade offered and Sherlock looked honestly confused.

"After your funeral" Lestrade explained. "He locked himself in your bedroom and cried for two days. Mrs Hudson and I were beginning to get really worried before he came out again and started to act more like normal. He must have come out to go to the toilet but he only did that when myself and Mrs Hudson where asleep. This isn't new Sherlock, it's how he copes."

Sherlock looked confused, and of course, why wouldn't he. He had not been there're to see John fall apart the last time, had not had the experience of pulling him back from the brink, so why would he know that there were signs to look out for… things that indicated John might be on the brink of giving up.

"Food, sleep and someone to talk to." Those are the most important things. Lestrade informed Sherlock who looked utterly at a loss. "Will you do that or shall I?" Lestrade asked and Sherlock flinched.

"What do I do?" he asked honestly confused at not having John there to advise him.

"Make him tea and probably toast, ask him what happened, listen to whatever he says even if it has nothing to do with the attack, touch him if he will let you. Just show him that you love him… you do, don't you?" Lestrade's voice was hesitant as he watched Sherlock flinch away from the question.

And then something clicked in the detective's mind. "You said you told Mycroft who did it. You know who did it. Why haven't you told me so I can have them brought in?" he nearly shouted but Sherlock didn't seem to mind his raised voice as he turned around and headed into the kitchen where he proceeded to put the kettle on.

"John told me not to." Was the simple answer he got in return and though it made sense it would seem that Sherlock had already broken that promise so why not again?

"But you told Mycroft. I know it upset John that you told him but surely upsetting him now is worth putting those bastards behind bars." Lestrade argued.

"He did not specify Mycroft, he was quite specific about you." Sherlock explained as he busied himself with making toast.

Lestrade glared at him for a full half minute before answering. "Ok, so if you're picky about who he has specifically named maybe he will tell someone else from the police, or you can. Donovan, or someone less close to you, maybe Summers who took his statement this morning." He offered at last.

Sherlock forced himself not to react at the casual mention of officer Summers. "No, absolutely not. I will continue to urge him to report it though. Although he has a point, the statistics for these kinds of cases are not good." He spread butter on the toast as he spoke, watching it melt. "I'll find some way to keep him safe." He muttered as he pulled out a plate and placed the toast on it.

"You think he's still in danger, that they might try to do this again?" Lestrade asked with marked concern.

"It's a possibility; more specifically I think they threatened to do it to me if he told anyone. So don't go letting on that I know, I suspect it would be a rather unpleasant experience" Sherlock stated calmly before stalking off toward the staircase with his tea and toast heading for John's room.

"John." He called knocking at his friend's door. "John I made you tea and toast, will you let me in?" there was no response. "John Lestrade's here. I haven't told him anything. Continuing to do so would be made a lot easier if you would in fact come out and show yourself to him so that he doesn't keep interrogating me."

There was a long silence but then finally there was the click of the key turning and the door opened. John was very pale and he had dark circles under his eyes but the haunted look in his eyes from the previous night was gone, replaced with the calm, hard look of Soldier John. It should have been a relief to see him more composed but somehow it wasn't. "That is blackmail Sherlock." He said as he took the cup of tea and brushed past Sherlock down the stairs.

"Lestrade, it's kind of you to stop by, but not necessary. As I'm sure Sherlock has already told you I'm not pressing charges. I don't want the hassle of a trial where the odds of winning are ridiculously small. There is too much else at stake." His voice was calm and even, almost detached.

"Sherlock said, you think they will come after him if you say who they are." Lestrade offered sympathetically. "But John, Sherlock can take care of himself, you need to show them that this is not ok".

Fire flashed in John's eyes "Sherlock, not again… why can't you just shut up and let me deal with this?" He didn't shout or cry but the disappointment was clear in his voice. He rounded on Lestrade, "Do you really think me that pathetic, that I am so weak that they were able to subdue me but they wouldn't be able to do the same to him?" there was fury in his voice now." I was a soldier, I fought a war and I came out alive… Fuck you for saying that… " and he hurled the coffee cup into the wall making it shatter, spilling tea all over the kitchen.

Silence settled over the room for a second. John looked down at the shards of his favourite mug scattered on the floor and Sherlock and Lestrade both searched for words to sort out the mess they found themselves in.

"John please…" Sherlock began and found himself speaking simultaneously with Lestrade's "I didn't mean that…" but John cut them both short.

"Don't, just don't and he left again, striding up the stairs with firm determination and the key in the lock was once again turned forcefully separating John from the world outside of his small bedroom.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock is mildly surprised at how quickly things return to something resembling normal. John looks tired and he holds himself very stiffly but he goes back to hanging out in the living room, making cups of tea and fiddling with his blog by that same afternoon. He even makes dinner even though he doesn't eat much of it, spending more time urging his flatmate to do so.

Sherlock tries to implement Lestrade's advice. He asks John to talk to him but that is a hopeless mission. Every time the attack is mentioned John's jaw clenches and he either a shade paler or increasingly an angry red colour and he snaps a sharp "No Sherlock" or "Don't Sherlock" and goes on with whatever he has been doing. So talking doesn't seem to be the best option, that is off the list at least momentarily.

He asks if John want's tea, thinking tea a safe subject, only to have John nod and get up to make it himself. "I could make it." He offers but John's shakes his head "Why, I always make the tea, I don't want a pity party Sherlock." He responds and Sherlock can write that off as something else on Lestrade's list that doesn't work.

Next is touch. He accepts the tea with a simple "Thanks" and reaches out to squeeze John's elbow. John doesn't react at all, he doesn't pull away but neither does he particularly seem to appreciate it. A while later he leans over John's chair peering at the computer screen in front of them and he let's his hand fall onto John's shoulder gently, asking "What are you reading?" and John jumps.

"Christ Sherlock don't sneak up on people from behind, you nearly gave me a heart attack" John gasps eyes wide as he twists in the chair so he can look at his flatmate. More data there, touching might not be bad, but touching unannounced from out of sight was, in reality he should probably have been able to figure that one out without experimentation. He had just grown so accustomed to being able to touch John unannounced but maybe he should reduce that from now on.

When John makes dinner he thinks he might not even have to bother with the feeding part of Lestrade's list but then he notices that the food appears not to be leaving John's plate. He pokes at it and moves it about, twirling the spaghetti onto his fork only to allow it to slide off again. Occasionally small bites make it into John's mouth but the progress is slow and very unlike John's usually healthy appetite.

"You're not eating." Sherlock observes. "You really should, if I were you I'd be saying that it is important to eat" he argues hoping that he is somewhat convincing.

"I am eating, just not very much. The stuff they gave me for the STI's is making me rather nauseous." John replied in a low voice.

Sherlock fell silent. That was one aspect of John's ordeal that he had not taken into account yet. "They didn't use any protection. I would have thought that as police officers they would have known better." He mused and even as he said it he knew that it was not good.

John stood and tipped the remainder of his dinner into the bin. Sherlock could see that he was trembling slightly but his face was a blank, a very pale canvas which showed only steely determination. "I'm going to bed. I didn't get much sleep last night." John offers and turns his back on Sherlock and stalks out of the room.

Sherlock knows that he has stepped in it, that speaking about the rape in such detail was a faux pas but he wonders why. After all had Lestrade not said that it would be good to talk about things. Maybe that only applied to when John talked about it and Sherlock listened, maybe Sherlock talking about it is a bad thing. He should have asked Lestrade for more details, or maybe he shouldn't have asked at all, after all Lestrade was something of an idiot.

John sat on the edge of his bed looking miserably down at his trembling hands. The subtle vibrations made the broken bones in his wrists ache. He had stopped taking the pain medication as of that morning welcoming the constant subtle variety of pain that seemed to anchor him in the physical present even as it reminded him of why he was fighting so hard not to fall apart in the first place. He finds it helps him to focus and that is what he needs right now.

He gets ready for bed and lies stretched out at his full length. He wants to curl up but it would make him look and therefore feel weak. He can't afford to be weak right now.

Three hours later he is still awake, trying to take even breaths and keep his mind on neutral topics. Eventually he decides that they are going to need to dive in the deep end if this is not going to drive him and possibly Sherlock mad. They need something to do. He picks up his phone and writes a short message to Lestrade.

'Could you bring a case for him tomorrow? We both need it. Preferably a cold one, not involving too much going into the yard, but lots of running around.' He wonders if adding that last bit is too big of a risk, will Lestrade be able to see through the reason why he does not want to go into the yard? But he figures he really cannot cope with seeing any of them yet, not without giving himself away so he takes the plunge and adds his initials to the text 'JW' and then adds a 'please' for good measure and fires it off before he can change his mind.

A minute later he receives a response. ' I'll find you something, be around before lunch. Hope you feel better then. Sorry for being a git GL'

He spends the rest of the night wondering if it was the right thing to do. He drifts in and out of sleep, managing to fall asleep for few minutes before being jolted awake again with his heart pounding and adrenaline coursing through his body. Adrenaline is not good for rest and sleep and it seems to take forever to fall back to sleep before the whole cycle starts up again.


End file.
